Malice
All of this work to slide into New-Imperial ranks unnoticed, and they put Zaavik on the same brainless tasks SIA did. If he knew 'deep cover' would involve mostly staring at security feeds for hours while his retinas burned away, he would have just stayed in the Core. No shortage of menial eye-damaging tasks there. What should he include in his SIA report? The new Ensign from Block-Aurek going to the bathroom three times an hour? Camera six's jittery feedback? Major Vin doing death sticks behind the rec area?
He was going to have to get creative to extract the intel SIA wanted, but for now, he was stuck here.
A bored sigh filtered out of Zaavik's throat. The heavy duraplast mantle weighed down on his shoulders as they slowly fell with the exhale. New-Imperial fatigues that he'd commandeered were a tight fit. Uncomfortable, restrictive, a bit too small, all made worse by the heavy, armored mantle that some genius had decided to implement in the design. As if the ugly, utilitarian fieldgray aesthetics weren't bad enough, they just had to be uncomfortable.
Zaavik's palm slid up his cheek as his head came to rest in his hand. Jaw hanging open, he gazed vacuously into the dull display, secretly wishing that something interesting would happen to save him from his near catatonia. Seconds, minutes, and hours began to blur together into a daze of droning monitor light and electronic white-noise. What am I doing here? Is this really the best they had for me? Cavil daydreaming was the only entertainment he'd been allowed. It wasn't helping.
The gloved hand that supported his hand moved to wipe over his eyes as the first fatigued sensations set in. Suddenly, a burning in his eyes took over the tired weight in favor of pain. Quickly, his hand turned over and the back of the glove wiped over each eye in quick succession for relief. After managing to relieve the stinging enough to open his eyes, he checked the inside of his hand. His heart dropped for a moment, powdery streaks of the cosmetic dust he'd applied were now smeared across his glove.
"Foito," he whispered. The makeup had made his skin from vermillion to light olive, passing him off as human well enough along with the dye that he'd applied to his hair. He swiveled in his chair, gaze turning quickly to a glass panel in the side of a terminal meant to make the inside components visible for ease of repair. The colors in the reflection were muted, overshadowed by the blacks and greys of the components within. He couldn't tell just how bad he'd mess up the facade.
He needed to get to the bathroom, any bathroom. Caches of the cosmetic were hidden all around just for this scenario. Zaavik stood quickly, keeping his head down and tilted slightly to conceal the possible blemish. Fatigue dress shoes tapped against the durasteel floor as he strode towards the exit.
"Where are you going, Lieutenant Alders?"
He froze. The voice of his commanding officer calling out from his own station, calling him by the fake identity Zaavik had been given for this assignment: First Liuetenant Coheed Alders. No time to hesitate, just think of an excuse, he told himself. Zaavik performed a neat about-face toward the Captain, only to find him too busy staring at his holovid rather than looking his way. The secret Zeltron had to force himself not to sigh with relief.
"I have to take a piss, Captain." He threw his voice a little, making it deeper and adding his convincing High-Galatic accent impression.
"Fine. Make it quick."
That was way easier than it had any business being.
Another about-face and he quickly left the security room, ducking around a corner with his head down to the nearest bathroom. He managed to make it by several other officers and guards with no suspicion. But then, of course, a General just had to walk by. A step toward the wall, and he turned, snapped to attention, and saluted, as those of his assumed rank were expected to do. Please don't look at me, please don't look at me, please don't look at me.
He didn't.
Zaavik walked even faster now, finally turning the last corner and almost exploding through the restroom door. Reaching under the sink apparatus, he plucked the small box from its magnetic attachment and opened it up as he glanced in the mirror. Black dyed hair peeked from under the officer's cap where it was tied up beneath. An off-color streak across his cheek and eyes was... definitely noticable. Zaavik began to apply the cosmetic concealing in a hurried and deliberate fashion, covering any trace of his heritage.
Suddenly, a spark ignited in his mind's eye. A sensation almost akin to a disturbance washed over his perception. It was familiar somehow. A presence, one that he felt vaguely acquainted with in some way or another. The force beckoned. Right now? Bad timing, but he was a Jedi. Jedi didn't ignore these things. Unfortunately. Regard strayed from the mirror to look around the restroom, a quick check before he began to focus. Through the fog of his spiritual surroundings, he could see it. A fire emanating a reluctantly malicious warmth.
Was it-?
The sudden sound of a toilet flushing snapped Zaavik out of his light trance. He quickly shoved his cosmetics applicator into the box and stuck it beneath the sink. Quickly, his hands jolted forward to turn on the sink, but- Shit, he was wearing gloves. Awkwardly they meandered up to his head, and he pretended to adjust his hat and hair in the mirror. It was something.
An Ithorian in custom-fitted fatigues left the stall. Young, old, male, female? He couldn't tell. It was an Ithorian, so it just looked, well, like an Ithorian.
The large alien walked right past the sinks, not bothering to wash its lanky hands. It spoke, the low buzzing and humming of the Ithorian language echoing in the spacious facility. Zaavik waited for a second, but no vocoder translation came. No vocoder? Must be off duty. He understood a little Ithorian, but not enough to know that they had said:
"Nice ass, soldier."
Whatever they said, from what little he understood, he gathered it was some kind of compliment.
"Y-you too?" He offered back just as the Ithorian Imperial disappeared behind the automatic door.
One more check in the mirror as he brushed it off. It was irrelevant. Something had struck his curiosity, and priorities had shifted to finding out if it was exactly what he thought it was.
When he returned to the security room, he immediately checked the feeds. Much more attentively this time, as he could now actually be bothered to care. Every feed was checked, nothing out of the ordinary. That was until he noticed a loop on one of the exterior monitoring feeds. No new tricks? All at once, Zaavik was ready to track her down, but also suddenly aware of the soreness up his spine that had still yet to fade. Considering for a moment, he wondered if it was even worth it. Bastion should have been enough of a deterrent, right? But, this couldn't be a coincidence, could it? The Will of the Force? Fate?
Another opportunity? An ally on hostile ground?
Zaavik stood up from his chair, walking around his desk to leave. A hand waved towards the Captain before there was an opportunity for the commanding officer to object.
"I'm relieved for the day," Zaavik declared as he touched the man's mind with the force.
"You're relieved for the day," the Captain echoed.
Zaavik stepped out of the security room and into the corridor.
Time to find her.
